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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25926340">A Bit of a Twist</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwatchangora/pseuds/pocketwatchangora'>pocketwatchangora</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett, Oliver Twist - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Victorian, Birthmarks, Burglary, Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gender Confusion, Innocent Aziraphale (Good Omens), Inspired by Dickens, M/M, Pickpockets, References to Dickens, Thief Crowley (Good Omens), Weight Issues, oliver twist au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:28:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,736</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25926340</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketwatchangora/pseuds/pocketwatchangora</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ok, hear me out: Oliver Twist AU</p><p>It's 2am and I need this idea out of my brain, may or may not continue it. No romance yet, except for some mutual checking out.</p><p>Aziraphale meets Crowley, a street-smart pickpocket, who introduces him to some decidedly shady characters and a world he never imagined. </p><p>Both Aziraphale and Crowley are young, mid to late twenties ish.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Bit of a Twist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale sat heavily on the step of the first building he spotted, his feet aching worse than his stomach. The kind lady he had sheltered with had fed him up to a robustness he had never before achieved, but the long journey had drained him of his rosiness. He was beginning to think he should have stayed there, with Madame Tracy and her grumpy husband, Mr Shadwell, when he spotted a very interesting character indeed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A young man with surprisingly long legs and a very slender figure was strolling down the road with his hands in his pockets, not a care in the world. He was blasé, in fact, that he stopped to thoroughly admire a carriage parked beside him just as a policeman was passing, when even Aziraphale, who knew nothing of city life, knew to tip his hat and smile politely to a member of the constabulary. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man lingered on the vehicle for a few moments longer, then glanced over his shoulder before continuing on his path, his movements fluid and so serpentine it was a wonder his hips didn't protest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale realised he was openly staring at the young man, who was around his own age if not slightly younger, at the precise moment said young man stopped and looked back at him. They stared at each other for a moment more before the stranger turned completely to face Aziraphale and sauntered, yes, that was the word, </span>
  <em>
    <span>sauntered</span>
  </em>
  <span>,</span>
  <span> over to him. He was wearing dark glasses, those used to protect one's eyes against the son, so it was difficult to tell where he was truly looking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'Ello." He greeted, startling Aziraphale with a thick cockney accent, grinning devilishly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Good morning." Aziraphale replied, smiling nervously at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What's the row?" He asked. Assuming the meaning of this question rather than knowing it, Aziraphale took a breath and replied. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm very tired and hungry." He said, stupidly, blushing at the scrutiny he could feel the gentleman was inflicting on him. He looked back with just as much ferocity, taking in his long lean body. His hair was red, an incredibly vibrant colour in the grey and brown of London thus far, waves peeking out from beneath his top hat, his teeth white and sharp. "You seem in need of a feed as well." Aziraphale added, though instantly regretted it. He knew from personal experience that weight could be a very sensitive topic. Luckily, however, the other man seemed oblivious to his faux-pas and laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What an angel you are, my eyes!" He said appreciatively. Aziraphale blushed further, then worse still when his stomach gave an exaggerated growl. Really, it had only been a day since his last meal; Madame Tracey had given him a small amount of money for food and supplied him with some snacks to nibble on the way.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, then!" His new acquaintance cried, standing to attention. "I cannot recommend a finer establishment than the one I am on my way to, if you would care to join me?" He spoke confidently, each word a temptation in and of itself. Aziraphale, seeing no better options, nodded and rose on stinging feet. "We shall have to find you some suitable footwear as well." The young man said, spotting the pitiful remains of Aziraphale's shoes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"These were my favourite shoes…" he mumbled, frowning down at them. He looked up, remembering himself and his manners, and smiled. "My name is Aziraphale, it is a pleasure to meet you." He said, loathed to forget a proper introduction, holding his hand out. The stranger grinned and took his hand in a firm, jovial shake. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Anthony J. Crowley, at your service, sir." He said. He looked like he wanted to add something else but didn't, dropping Aziraphale's hand and continuing onwards. Aziraphale was forced to jog a few steps to catch up to the long-legged man, eager to know more about their destination. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Will there be food at this establishment?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I expect so. It is the abode of an associate of mine, what gives those who are lost a place to stay." </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"They must be a very kind soul." Aziraphale said, imagining a pink-faced old gentleman or a lovely lady dressed in white. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When they arrived, Aziraphale was, admittedly, disappointed. The place was a very old building in a very sorry state, half underground where the mud river had reclaimed the lower floors, and ramshackle would be putting it kindly. They climbed several flights of stairs, much like Aziraphale's previous home, and finally arrived in a flat that was so blackened with age and soot that hardly any light could penetrate the stale air at all. <em>This must be what Hell feels like,</em> Aziraphale thought with, perhaps, an excess of the dramatic.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Candles and lanterns dotted the place, but these only revealed the sullen and filthy faces of those other 'lost' unfortunates, and a crackling fire that brought no comfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley strode in ahead of him, moving straight towards the figure hunched over the fire, cooking what appeared to be a sausage on the end of a poker. They looked up when Crowley greeted them and stood, adding only another inch or so, to their full height. Aziraphale joined them when Crowley gestured him over, and was met by an even stranger person to his companion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They stood before him, small in stature, with ink-black hair that stood in thick strands all over their head, standing or lying in every direction. They wore a black suit and tails, a high-necked collar secured by an ornate brooch and black cross tie, and a red sash draped across their body from shoulder to waist. Aziraphale, staring into this fascinating person's eyes, could not determine any particular gender and felt, perhaps, they had none. What was most curious, however, was the enormous red-eyed fly that sat upon their head, a hat that seemed almost alive and certainly aware. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Beelzebub, meet my new friend, Aziraphale." Crowley said proudly, extending his long arm towards his 'new friend', the phrasing of which pleased Aziraphale endlessly. The 'kind soul' Aziraphale had been expecting looked him up and down with utter disdain, and turned back to Crowley.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"What </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> did you bring?" They asked, tone bored and rather rude. Crowley was quick to dig into the deep pockets of his large coat, revealing several leather wallets and three handkerchiefs. The leader of this apparent group's face lit up at the sight, taking one of the wallets from him. They held it up close to their own face, thumbing over the supple folds and tiny stitching. "Lined?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Crowley glanced at Aziraphale and nodded, suddenly somewhat sheepish.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only the best." He said weakly. Aziraphale frowned between them and the items.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Did you make these?" He asked Crowley, impressed by the craftsmanship. Beelzebub barked a laugh. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'Course not. He nicked them." They said. Aziraphale frowned even more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"'Nicked'?" He asked, unfamiliar with the word. Beelzebub scoffed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"An 'angel' indeed." They said, mockingly. "Nicked. Otherwise known as 'pilfered', 'purloined', 'unwilling donated'..." They stared at Aziraphale like he was a rat on their dinner plate, then rolled their eyes. "</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sto-len</span>
  </em>
  <span>." They elongated each syllable, and Aziraphale grew angry, but not at such rudeness. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Stolen?" He asked, turning to Crowley, who had remained very quiet. "You mean you </span>
  <em>
    <span>took</span>
  </em>
  <span> these from people?" He asked, shocked. Crowley shrugged languidly, making a considering face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Only from rich people." He said. Aziraphale was about to speak when the front door banged open and everyone turned. In the doorway was a tall, imposing man wearing a long thick coat and suit, all the most peculiar colour imaginable in this burned-out shell of a house: a delicate shade of lavender. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He walked in like he owned the place, regarding the people with the room with barely concealed contempt. He was closely followed by a small mole-like man with a faded birthmark over one eye, giving it the appearance of a dark patch like a dog. He was carrying what looked like a very heavy bag that dragged along the ground occasionally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Well, well, Gabriel." Beelzebub said in greeting, clicking their fingers to someone. A boy with dark skin and hair that stuck upwards in two spikes rushed to pour what looked like gin into a cup and take it over to the taller of the new arrivals, which he waved away without looking. "How was the job?" </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Easy." He said, arrogantly, with an accent Aziraphale didn't recognise, and the man behind him moved forward to the table, hauling the heavy back up and opening it. It was full of clinking silver candlesticks, gold jewellery, shining serving platters. Beelzebub left their place by the fire to inspect with some level of aloof interest. "50-50, as discussed." Gabriel said. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beelzebub hummed a noncommittal sound and reached a ragged-fingerless-gloved hand into the bag, only for the other man to slap it away, which they hissed at. "Thank you, Sandalphon." Gabriel said, moving to sit down in one of the less filthy-looking chairs with obvious disgust. "Who is that?" He asked, pointing at Aziraphale across the room without so much as glancing at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Crowley found him, or something." Beelzebub said, uninterested, as they continued to fig through the bag's treasures despite Sandalphon's protests. Gabriel squinted at Aziraphale for a moment, then at Crowley, before sighing and making a summoning gesture. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"C'mere." He said and Aziraphale went, hesitantly. Crowley wanted to stop him but didn't, he'd clearly already ruined his chance by being a rotten criminal. "I have a job for someone of your… colouring." Gabriel said,  still frowning at him. Aziraphale gulped nervously.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Oh?" He asked. He assumed he meant his blond hair, he often got compliments on how soft and angelic it made him look. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I need you to get into a house for me. Make nice with the owners, gain their trust. You could say you're… a butler." He said, smiling a smile that did not reach his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Or a magician." Beelzebub supplied, Gabriel ignored them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"The point is, you need to be inside the house so you can let </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span> in." He said, staring deep into Aziraphale's soul now. His eyes were a strange colour, almost purple. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"These… these people's names?" He asked, knowing this was a thoroughly immoral thing to do but absolutely sure he should not say 'no' to this man. Gabriel grinned. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Device." He said, and a shiver ran up Aziraphale's spine.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I don't know what this is but it was fun to write 😂 let me know if you want more! </p><p>Inspired by Oliver Twist, the pure fic I am currently writing for it, and the Staged episode where they discuss it.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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